


Dulce et Decorum Est

by dismiss_your_fearsx



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Character Death, Friendship, Graphic Description, Love, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 17:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11948733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismiss_your_fearsx/pseuds/dismiss_your_fearsx
Summary: The old lie: it is sweet and honourable to die for one's fatherland. - Wilfred Owen.'He thinks of her eyes, the blueish glow they have whenever she looked at him; the lights of her hair; the shadows within her curls; their secret meetings; the feel of her lips; her smile when he'd asked her to become his wife - the vibrancy of her life soothes the ringing of death in his ears. In truth, he feels it is the only reason he has not lost his mind.'A WW1 AU told by different points of view, highlighting the struggles faced in the trenches and on the home front.





	Dulce et Decorum Est

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! I have no idea where this idea came from but I'm excited to write it! I hope you'll forgive any historical errors, it has been a while since I studied WW1 and there's only so much google can inform me of! This chapter is more of an introduction, next chapter will be longer and will be from the point of view of our favourite ladies at home! But for now, enjoy xo

_There's got to be more to life than this_ , Dr. Dwight Enys thinks as he frantically wraps open wounds for what must be the thousandth time that day. He does not know exactly what day it is, they have all blurred together, but he is almost certain it is June now. How long has he been here? He is not quite sure, the only thing he is sure of is that he misses her terribly- and reminds himself that his being here is helping to keep her safe.

He examines the now lifeless young man in front of him, his wounds too deep to be salvaged, and wagers he could not be a day over eighteen.

"Such a waste," he mutters bitterly as he closes the boy's eyelids over his unseeing blue eyes. As Dwight and a VAD carefully place his body out of the way to make room for the next unfortunate soul who should be so cursed as to end up in this front line infirmary, he notices a sporran attached to the man's uniform and sadly notes how far from home the boy is.

He doesn't even have time to change his gloves before a group of four men is rushed in- a land mine incident. Before the war, Dwight could not imagine that the human body could possibly hold so much blood; it pours quickly and mercilessly from the broken men, their limbs and extremities disfigured and missing. As one of the writhing men is set in front of Dr. Dwight Enys, he sourly wonders how the whole world has not been submerged by the spilled blood of this war. His mind allows the lullaby of her laughter to flood his entire being, drowning out the agonising cries from all manner of injured men. He thinks of her eyes, the blueish glow they have whenever she looked at him; the lights of her hair; the shadows within her curls; their secret meetings; the feel of her lips; her smile when he'd asked her to become his wife - the vibrancy of her life soothes the ringing of death in his ears. In truth, he feels it is the only reason he has not lost his mind.

 "Dwight? Dwight!"

He is dragged from his daydream and blindly heads towards the voice shouting his name.

"Dr. Grant, take over a moment, please," he orders, handing the scalpel to the vacant doctor in front of him. Dr. Enys cautiously approaches his lifelong friend, Ross, who is desperately waving a letter in the air.

* * *

  _Sergeant Ross Poldark alighted the train in Truro on the 12th of April 1916 and decided to walk the unpaved three miles to Nampara. Despite not setting foot in Cornwall for almost two years, as well as his exhausted state, he had not forgotten the way. The humble, inherited cottage came into his view and he held his breath, absorbing its stubborn beauty. He was to spend three days here, a gift bestowed to him by Officer Williams, whom he bravely shielded some months ago in no man's land. A lull in the war, Ross had been the first soldier in his squadron to be granted leave. He approached the house cautiously; gently shoving the front door open. He did not notice the new rug or the photograph of himself that hung proudly on the wall - so that his son would always know him; the only thing on his mind was the kitchen- where he knew she would be. He could smell her homemade bread baking, its scent caused his mouth to salivate while the remainder of his senses were assaulted by the wild pounding of his heart. He had no idea what to expect on the other side of the door. Did she look older? The same? Was her hair still long? Were her eyes truly as green as he saw them when he closed his eyes at night? Would the wound of his enlistment still be fresh to her? She had been pleasant in her letters, but did they reflect her true feelings?_

_She was crouched down by the oven when the door creaked opened. "Oh, Caroline. You're earl-" The end of her sentence caught in her throat, which ran dry. The dish that held the freshly baked bread smashed against the floor. She swayed slightly and Ross thought she might faint. She stared at him, unbelieving, as though it were his ghost she saw._

_"Ross," she gasped softly._

_"Demelza," he replied warmly, holding out his arms, debating whether to go to her or wait for her to come to him._

_He hadn't long to debate as she flung herself into his arms, her body becoming limp as it registered that he was real, and he was home. "Oh, Ross!" she sobbed into the lapel of his uniform._

_His strong arms enveloped her and a single, relieved, tear streamed down his face as he breathed in her scent, his back slid down the kitchen wall until they were both slumped on the tiled floor. They simply held each other for hours._

* * *

 

"Ross!" Dwight blurts out before clearing his throat, "Sergeant Poldark," he amends professionally, moving to shake his hand. "How can I help you?"

Ross's eyes are wild and his breathing is deep and frantic. He urgently presses the letter against the doctor's bloody overalls. "Read this," he commands him.

Dwight obliges and unfolds the letter and is met by a familiar hand: Demelza's. Her tear-stained letter reads:

**_My dearest Ross,_ **

**_Jeremy has grown an inch since last month. He and I are well and miss you terribly. I hope you have been changing your socks. Did you give Francis and Dwight the two spare pairs I sent back with you? I hope so. Caroline's uncle told us that John Trenglos died, I am sorry._ **

**_The truth is, Ross, I write with some news. I know you will not like it, but it must be said._ **

**_I am pregnant._ **

**_I hope you can find it in your heart to be glad instead of worried, though I know you will now be in a panic and will likely not even finish reading this letter. I know it is difficult for you - wherever you are, my love - but it is also difficult for me without you. Ross, I beg something of you that I know in my heart you cannot promise me, but I shall ask it all the same: when this bloodshed is over, come home to the three of us in one piece?_ **

**_Waiting patiently for your reply._ **

**_With love, always,_ **

_**Demelza** _

 

Dwight sighs and bites his bottom lip. Having fully digested the letter, and after weighing up the situation with his famed level-headedness, Dwight slowly hands it back to his best friend. "Shit."


End file.
